


Who Blanked Roger Rabbit

by ThatScottishNerdGirl



Category: Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)
Genre: 1940s, 1980s, Action/Adventure, Animation, Comedy, Computers, Film Noir, Ink, Innuendo, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatScottishNerdGirl/pseuds/ThatScottishNerdGirl
Summary: It's 1984 and Kitty Hawkins is on a revenge mission. The Xerox killed her mother, and a certain animation studio is going to pay. But when an unknown force threatens to divide and destroy ToonTown, it's going to take her, a toon rabbit, a grizzled detective, a plucky apprentice, a saucy lounge singer and a group of gangster weasels to solve the mystery and save the day.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N  
> I recently rewatched the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit and remembered what a fantastic concept humans living alongside animated characters was. I wondered about how the toon characters would react to the modern world. Would they change with the times, or would they experience culture shock? I also thought about adding new characters, bringing back old ones and creating a brand new story based on some of the concepts from the books, film and comics.  
> I did a lot of research for this story, including how old hollywood operated, what it was like for different animation companies and tiny details here and there from 1940s-1980s to try and bring the world to life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!  
> Thank You!  
> ~ThatScottishNerdGirl

_Los Angeles, 1948_

“Aaaaand...CUT!”

The sharp, shrill voice of director Raoul J Raoul echoed through the studio, rivalling that of the end-of-shoot safety bell. “That’s a wrap for today, folks!”

The clamour and rush of the crew for the next Baby Herman picture could be heard throughout the studio. Supervisors folded and tucked their scripts neatly under their arm and marched off to find the nearest pot of coffee. Cameramen wheeled their dollies out of the way and mopped their brows, pleased that the shoot had gone smoothly and that their boss wouldn’t have their heads. Tired assistants busied about dismantling equipment and shutting off huge spotlights, eagerly gathering with their colleagues to hit the buffet table.

“Here’s your coat Mr Raoul.”

“Thanks. Where’s Roger?”

In the centre of the room, Roger Rabbit sat upright in a wooden barrel, wringing the water from his ears as though they were giant towels, humming and waving goodbye to the tweeting birds that had appeared above his head. The joke had been a killer; a slapstick routine in which Roger and Baby Herman had gone to the circus and become acrobats which featured Roger swan-diving into a paddling pool, only to have the ringmaster replace it with a glass of water at the last minute. It was a great script that the new writers had thought up in an effort to distract from...recent events.

“Hiya Raoul!”

The balding director for once, gave the toon rabbit a genuine smile. “That was excellent work today Roge, ya’ve really bucked your ideas up since our last picture.”

“Oh, I couldn’t let ya down Mister Raoul, Sir,” gushed Roger, “I’ve been p-p-p-practicing the whole week. Every barrel and jug was a golden opportunity! I may have made a few enemies in the ToonTown Tavern, but I’d say it was worth it!”

“Easy for you ta say Rogah,” came the gruff voice of Baby Herman at Raoul’s feet, gesturing to his ridiculous outfit, “Ya ever tried crawlin’ ‘cross a high-wiyah at a thousan’ feet wearin’ nothin’ but a jestah’s hat and a diaper. Ya lucky I like ya so much Raoul, cuz you don’t pay me enough for this!”

“You were dazzling Herman, as always!” Raoul praised, almost reassuringly. “Well with the shoot done, whaddaya say you boys join us for a couple of martinis downtown? My treat!”

“Jeepers, that’s awful kind of ya Raoul but, I promised Jessie I’d be home early.”

“Ya sure?”

“Ehh, let ‘im go Raoul, if I had a broad as half a dish as his, I’d wanna get home early too!” cackled Baby Herman, “See ya at the premier Roge!”

“Wait--” Roger began.

A small crowd of assistant directors in smart attire began to form around Raoul and Herman as they exited the set. “We should go to Leroy’s,” one of them was saying, “I hear they serve drinks till 11.”

“Does Leroys allow toons?” another asked.

“Guys…” Roger struggled.

“If we get stopped, just tell ‘em he’s with me,” Raoul said, a little too proudly, “Trust me, guys from hollywood? We’ll be treated like kings.”

“They better have good scotch,” grumbled Baby Herman following his new posse out the door.

“Excellent work today Roger!” Raoul called over his shoulder.

“But, Raoul WAIT!”

The crowd dispersed and the set began to empty.

“...I’m stuck...”

Roger put each of his gloved hands at either side of the barrel. Okay, this shouldn’t be too hard, he thought, just a little twist and shake…

“Uh, let’s see...righty tighty, lefty loosey, righty tighty, lefty loosey…” He managed to lift his big feet from the bottom the barrel and press them against the wood. “Just...one...more…YOW!”

Roger shot straight from the container like a cork from a bottle, scattering splinters and leaving a miniature river in his wake. The water pouring through the holes in the barrel trickled into the light fixture, which crackled with bright sparks and caused the bulb of the above spotlight to explode. Roger had landed near a group of bewildered camera operators, desperately pulling at a light box that had gotten stuck on his head during the carnage.

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

As the two operators took turns trying to pull the box off of the poor toon, they failed to notice just how hard they were pulling. Roger became longer, his body stretching like a piece of taffy until he flew backwards with a yell into the cameras.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I can fix it, I’ll pay for it, I promise!” Roger was saying as the horrified operators salvaged the equipment. In a corner of the room, two set designers sighed and pulled away the number 102 from a sign which now read: “0 days without a major incident.”

In another corner near the gallery, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a tight bun put a hand to her forehead. “I swear that rabbit is becoming a liability.” She turned to her two managers. “Are you sure we should release the picture in the next three months?”

“What’s your point?” said one scoffing down his cupcake.

“Use a napkin,” she scoffed, “Look, we’re already in enough trouble as it is from last year’s patty-cake scandal. It might be a wise idea to hold off the publicity until this whole Cloverleaf thing is behind us.”

“You worry too much Susan,” the other said, sipping coffee and waving his hand, “Another firm is already looking to buy the RedCar off them. They’re practically doing our job for us.”

“Even so, there’s not much we will be able to do once the papers get their hands on the news that we’ve wrapped,” Susan replied pacing in her black heels, “We might have to fix some leaks…” she turned to one of her colleagues, “Avery, where did you put those on set photos?”

Avery turned to a cabinet behind him and started rifling through the drawers until he produced a neat beige folder, and flipped through the lamninated photographs of Roger and Baby Herman posing with the director and producers. “They were meant to go to the studio but I was on my lunch break.”  
Susan looked in confusion as he tried to subtly force them into her hands. “Well, I’m on mine now, I can’t take them!”

“What about that apprentice of yours? Doesn’t she work for Maroon Cartoons?”

“She’s not my apprentice she’s more of a...shadow.” She motioned for him to follow her towards the gallery while her other colleague grabbed his coat, hat and remnants of his cupcake and exited the set. “She follows along with whatever you throw at her, never speaks and you barely know she’s there.”

“She sounds perfect,” Avery commented, “she can drop off the pictures and then get back to work at her own place.”

“I highly doubt her own place pays much,” said Susan dropping her voice to almost a low whisper. “She’s an _Inker.”_

“An Inker? You mean she gave the rabbit those ridiculous yellow gloves?”

Susan nodded. She pushed open the glass door of the gallery and knocked twice. “Hey honey, we have a small job for you!”

A small, willowy girl of about sixteen looked up from her notes. She aligned them with great care and slipped them into a small yellow satchel at her feet and picked up her pale blue sunhat before straightening out herself, smoothing the folds of her navy victory suit.

“Margaret, this is Mr Avery Cotton,” Susan said gesturing to him, “He’s one of the studio’s top distributors.”

Avery offered his hand. “Nice to meet you young lady.”

Margaret took his hand and practically curtsied with nerves. “Y-Yes, you too Sir. I’ve heard of Cotton Productions. You own the rights to most of RK Maroon’s work don’t you?”

“You’re a very bright girl! We struck a deal with him back in ‘29. Maroon, God rest his soul, would only trust us with his creations if he signed and approved every little piece of paper we threw at him. Anyway, Mrs Stubbs here tells me you work in the Ink and Paint department.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s...a living,” Margaret shrugged with a soft smile.

“Well, since you’ve worked hard today, I’ll let you go early,” Susan interrupted, “I just need to ask that for one last task, you take these down to the animation studio and deliver them to the archive room.” She handed the beige folder which she took gingerly, opening up the pages slightly. Susan instantly grabbed her pale wrist with her polished nails. “Don’t open it! It’s all highly confidential information!”

Margaret looked taken aback. “I-”

“Look, just hurry it along and the sooner you drop them off, the sooner you can get home and get some rest.” Before Margaret could object, her superior pushed her towards the door and into the direction of the stage exit. “Remember! The archive room!” she called after her before slamming the glass door so hard it practically rattled.

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on her?” Avery inquired as he watched her go.

“She’ll be fine,” Susan replied nonchalantly, “the kid looks fragile but if you start her up, she works like a brand new Buick. Coffee?” 

* * *

 

Margaret Ishmael was a unassuming young woman. Modest and soft spoken, she had been born and raised in Santa Monica by her parents and grandparents, all Irish and German immigrants. She didn’t look much like a local, thanks to her ivory skin and circles of stress under her dark brown eyes. She clutched the folder to her chest and stepped into the bright L.A sunshine. It was a scorching day, the tarmac of the lot practically burning her through her cork wedge shoes. She adjusted her hat and walked with her head down across the busy street to catch the trolley downtown to the animation studio. She nodded to the security guards as she passed, paying no heed to the wolf whistles that followed.

A few toons made their way out of the various stages: Michigan J Frog hopped down the stairs of one, passing Pepe Le Pew with his arm around Penelope Pussycat. A crowd of anthropomorphised female hippos hobbled down the stairs of another, mingling with their crocodilian co-stars at the bottom. A few non-animal toons were roaming about too, notably a tiny locomotive. Margaret lifted her feet for it as it tried to get around her. She was fond of toons, she had been ever since her first Felix the Cat cartoon as a child. Her uncle had paid for her movie ticket and much later, her scholarship.

She saw the RedCar draw to a halt around the first block behind the studio and she quickened her pace. As she ran, waving a gloved hand to the driver, one of her wedge shoes came off, causing her to trip and tumble over the curb and into a puddle. The folder she was carrying opened and fell flat, its pages scattering onto the sidewalk. She gasped and began gathering them up as fast as she could.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no!” she half-sobbed, trying as best she could to keep them away from the puddle.

As she carefully picked each of them up and stuffed them into place, her eyes couldn’t help but wander to a black and white picture of Roger Rabbit with Raoul. The director’s arm was around the rabbit, who was putting two toon fingers up behind him to give him bunny ears. This didn’t look confidential, she thought, just a few publicity shots. She looked at Roger’s other hand...there was a blank space on one of his knuckles -- a small one, but one nonetheless. Holding it close to her, she squinted, making sure it wasn’t a printing error...no, the rabbit definitely had a blank smudge where the knuckles of his gloves should be.

“Hey Miss!”

Margaret looked up. The conductor was standing at the doors of the trolley frowning. “You gettin’ on or what?”

“Oh! Yes, I-” she fumbled in her satchel for her purse and stood counting the right change.

“Come on lady, I don’t got all day!”

“I’m sorry! Just let me…”

The conductor stepped inside the vehicle and whispered to the driver to drive on.

“W-W-Wait!” cried Margaret, holding the exact change, “Please, I have to get across town!”

“Sorry sweetheart, but I’m on a tight schedule here, you’ll have to take the bus.”

“No, please, you don’t understand I have to get back to my job--”

“And I gotta get back to mine Ma’am, have a good day--”

Margaret persisted. “Please…” Although she knew she was breaking the rules, she took out the picture of Roger and Raoul, “I work for Maroon Cartoons, I just need to get to the animation studio.”

“Hey, I know that guy. Roger Rabbit right?”

“Yes.”

“You ever met him?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“What’s he like?”

“Uh, taller in person.”

The conductor raised his eyebrows, but sighed. “Alright, get on.”

Margaret thanked him profusely, paid her fair and stood in the packed trolley trying not to meet the glaring eyes of the passengers.

The trolley trundled on down the boulevard, passing the local businesses, theatres, markets and restaurants. A group of ragamuffin children played soccer with a can of baked beans and played with one of the local shaggy dogs. Two homeless men sat lounging under the enormous palm trees, exchanging stories. Women in knee-high floral dresses congregated for lunch at the sandwich stands, chatting. All the delis were opening for lunch, reminding Margaret she hadn’t eaten yet. She’d find something.  
The infamous Cloverleaf building came into view; abandoned and left to rot, the only workers left were the ants that crawled in and out of the woodwork. Opposite, another automobile firm was just opening. LA had changed when they moved in, and change wasn’t going away when they moved out.

The RedCar stopped just a minute or so from the animation studio. Margaret stepped off and gave one last thank you to both the conductor and driver and some apologetic glances to the passengers before it set off again down the rails. Margaret made her way through the many lots of the studio, silently making sure she had all the photos together. As she neared her building, she heard a bright cheery voice chirp:

“Hiya Maggie!”

“Oh, good afternoon Jiminy!”

The little cricket put out his cigar and floated down from where he was sitting on his umbrella. “Aren’t ya a little late in today?”

“Oh no, I had a morning placement at the set with the producer. Just a temporary thing at the moment, but hopefully I’ll get my foot in the door again.”

“One toe at a time!” Jiminy encouraged. “What’s your plan this afternoon?”

“You know the drill Jim, an Inker’s job is never done.”

“Yep, those gloves and hats ain’t gonna paint themselves. By the way,” he tugged at his gloves and hat thanks for the swell duds!”

“You’re welcome,” she giggled.

“Well, I best be going now. Oh and Margaret, remember what I told you: Don’t fret about work too much, always let your conscience be your guide!”

“I will Jim, thank you.” Her smile faded a little as she entered the building. The cricket meant well, but if only he understood.

She asked one of the janitors for the keys to the archive room and managed to drop the pictures off in the safe marked for Roger. She wondered if she should check on one of her special projects, but she was tardy enough as it was and headed straight for the laboratory. Her friend Lottie was already there.

“Where have you been, you’re late! What happened to you Mags? Why are you all wet?”

“I had a little accident,” Margaret replied, dabbing herself with a handkerchief and sitting down at her desk, “but I’m fine now.” She looked around the empty studio. “Where are the others?”

“Still not back from lunch. Please tell me you got something?” There was silence. “Maggie, you can’t keep doing this, it’s not healthy.”

“I need to get back to work. Mrs Stubbs said I needed to do a job for her, and said I should rest…but, I have to work, I just have to.”

“Me and Retta could take your shift for you.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I found out today that I accidentally left a patch of white on our star rabbit’s gloves. If I recolour it now, it should show up in about 3 days or so.”

“You’d think they would notice their colour fading,” Lottie muttered, drawing up her own chair and slipping on a pair of plastic gloves, “I should transfer to Disney. I bet they don’t have any problem with unfinished cels. And I hear they treat their ink girls much better too!” The girls painted in silence until the room filled up again.

The ink and paint girls of the department were a special breed of artists. Every day they would come in, slip on the thumbless gloves and dip their brushes in any colour under the sun. Whether it was sewing on a shiny gold button for Popeye or tailoring a new pair of spruce slacks for Goofy, the women would colour every character sent to them by Maroon, Disney or Warner Bros. It was a painstaking process, each cel individually crafted with love - and blood, sweat and tears.

At 5:00am the girls would file into the lab, plant themselves at their desks and work their nibs like magic wands on celluloid under bright goose-necked lamps. Sometimes the men from the animation department would come to visit them and congratulate their work. That was a welcome occurrence. Other times, their boss would come in to lean his head on them or rub their shoulders while they were trying to work. That was less welcome. Margaret kept her head down and worked as best as she could. Lottie would sometimes marvel at her willingness to stay overtime. The issue with Roger’s glove only proved that further.

But that was Margaret Ishmael.

 

* * *

 

_Los Angeles, 1964_

Maroon Cartoons continued to flourish in their productions. Since toons were immortal (with a few exceptions,) Roger Rabbit only grew in popularity, even making appearances next to another famous rabbit, Bugs Bunny in his new Looney Tunes half hour special.  
Television had proved a great gig for toons of every kind. No longer did people have to walk five blocks to the nearest cinema to watch a toon’s antics, but they could do so from the comfort of their own home.

Life had been treating Margaret Ishmael well. She gained a reputation at the studio as an eager worker, only stopping her work to go to the restroom and cool her burning joints under the faucet. She had also attracted the attention of a handsome animator named Glen Hawkins. A sweet young, blonde, man had approached her at the window of the ink and paint department one day and had complimented her drawings. He told her he was one of the lead animators on a new patriotic cartoon short, Hawks and Doves. He’d punctuated “patriotic” with sarcastic quotations. She had laughed and the two began seeing each other often.

The trend of dating animators in the ink and paint department had caught on faster than the miniskirt. C.B Maroon, the studio’s new owner, hated it. They would often joke about how he wanted the department to remain “a nunnery.” It was on one afternoon, the women were diligently painting the intricate lines of dove wings, that they heard it.

“Attention! Could I have everyone out in the lobby please?”

The booming voice of C.B. Maroon shouted through every door in the studio. He was sticking his head through the windows of the animator’s rooms, wheezing slightly. From their desks, the ink and paint girls looked up and prepared to leave, knowing they would be called next.

“What’s going on?” whispered Retta.

“It’s Maroon,” Lottie whispered back, “He’s ticked off about somethin’.”

“What’s hacked him?” cut in Becky.

“There was a strike at DeGreasy Studios last week,” June explained, “It was in the papers, apparently they had some communists working for them. He’s probably going to ask about our politics.”

“Anybody here a Commie?” Lottie joked.

“Ssh! Here he comes!” hissed Retta.

C.B. Maroon entered the lab. The spitting image of his brother, hulking and grouchy. He always wore dark shades, even indoors. The girls could never truly decipher his expression, so any attempt to try and impress him too much seemed pointless.

“Girls! The lobby please!”

The women left their stations and followed their platoon into a line outside. It looked as though half the art department was here, all facing the same direction. Maroon had set up what appeared to be a portable Acme stage in the centre of the lobby, standing like a king of his castle addressing his subjects.

“Alright, listen up everybody! I am sure you’ve heard the news about the strikes at DeGreasy and the protest from the local university about our new cartoon short “Hawks vs Doves.” But I want to assure you all that the rumors are false: we will not be lowering your pay grades, so any attempt at a strike is most unneeded.”

A few of the male animators exhaled in relief and some even clapped.  
“It’s not like they pay us a lot anyway,” muttered Lottie to Margaret.

“In fact today is a historic day: one that will change the domain of Maroon Cartoons forever. We are investing in the latest technology sent to us by Walt Disney himself. I am here to tell you all today that from now on, animators will no longer have to draw and trace every frame of their creation. The days of rotoscope are over here at the studio! From now on, each animator will create his character easier using all our newest installations.”

There was a cheer from the art department. Maroon continued;

“Furthermore, all the creators will have the chance to test the new tech today. And in typical Maroon Cartoon fashion, I have each hidden the machine in every animating room, and as my hardworking and talented staff, you are invited to search for them. It’s like one big treasure hunt, all we need are parrots and eye-patches!” The crew laughed. “On your marks, get set, GO!”

Everyone was jostled around as every artist ran to the rooms. The ink and paint team excitedly clambered over each other to get their share of the new equipment. Maroon noticed three of his best inkers, Lottie, Retta and Maggie struggle to get to the front of the crowd and slowly guided them away.

“Hey! You ladies shouldn’t be left behind! You come to my office, I’ll show it to ya in person.”  
The women followed him to his swanky office on the third floor of the management complex. He ushered them inside with all the excitement of a child. In the middle of the room was a large object covered with a red curtain.

“Okay, are you girls ready to see something amazing?”

“Certainly!” said Retta, “We’re ready!”

“Okay…TADAAA!”

Maroon lifted the curtain to reveal a chunky piece of machinery, pearl white in colour, with a dashboard of different buttons and a glass sheet over its counter. The women stared at it in confusion.

“What do you think?”

“It’s a photocopier?” questioned Lottie.

“Not just any photocopier Lottie my dear, this is the new Xerox 9000. It’s here to make the lives of us artists a lot better. We’ll be able to produce characters with this puppy faster and cheaper than ever before!”

“That’s amazing! How does it work?” asked Retta.

“It’s simple. A cel is painted and completed right? Then it is fed through this machine which takes the cel and creates multiple copies of it. Disney have used it to finish their new Dalmations picture. They take the ink and Voila, printed puppies!”

“This will definitely make our jobs easier,” mused Retta. “When do we start?”

Maroon’s smile faded and he took off his dark glasses to look them in the eyes. “That’s uh...kinda what I wanted to talk to ya about girls. Since the delivery, the company has decided to make...cutbacks. It seems that with the rate this thing goes at, hand inking everything will be a thing of the past.”

The women were stunned into silence. It surprised them all when it was Margaret who spoke up.

“So, what happens to us?”

C.B Maroon looked at her with what she hoped was genuine pity. “I’m sorry Maggie. It’s not my decision, it’s the boys upstairs -”

Lottie snapped. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What about all the girls in the department, you still need inkers!”

Maroon held up his hands, “Oh we’ll still have the department, we’ll just have a smaller staff! Lottie, honey -”

“Don’t pull that ‘honey’ crap with me! Now listen here! We’ve worked our asses off for you for fifteen years!” She stabbed her finger at Margaret. “This one was just a baby herself when she came to work for you! This is how you repay us?”

“Lottie, I can have you fired on the spot right now for that tirade,” growled Maroon, his face darkening.

Lottie scoffed. “You won’t have the satisfaction Rooney. I quit!” She stormed out of the office, slamming the door on her way out. Like a worried father, Maroon put his head in his hands. Margaret approached him.

“Mr Maroon Sir? I understand that the Xerox can paint faster than we can, but I think I have a solution to this problem.” Maroon raised his eyebrows. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’ve...been working on a few shorts of my own. I thought if I could maybe present it to the guys next door, I could show you that I’m still -”

“Wait, you mean you’ve been...animating? You used the equipment?”

Retta held her breath, only looking on in horror as her friend wilted under the steely glare of her boss.

“Margaret. You know what our policies are.”

“Yes.”  
“So you know where I stand on inkers slacking off?”

“Yes, but I didn’t-”

“I will ask you this once. What did you do with the results?”

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. “I locked them away in a safe.”

“Which. Safe?”

“I can’t remember.”

C.B. Maroon rose to his feet, and spoke clearly and calmly.  
“Margaret. You’ve been a great worker all these years and you’re one of the most talented inkers I’ve ever known. I understand it’s...tough out there. But you must leave the animating to the trained professionals. I had considered having you on the team that kept their place here at Maroon. But, rules are rules. I’m sorry.” 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it…” Retta kept saying over and over, “we got laid off.” She looked back across the lot to the ink and paint lab, which would now feel barer to those still left inside. She put her arm around Margaret who seemed inconsolable, “It’s okay Maggie, we’ll find other jobs.”

“No one is going to hire me now.”

“So, you made one mistake. Just say you were curious about how the animation was done and it got the better of you-”

“It’s not that.” Margaret hugged her chest, tears forming, “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re WHAT?”

_“ssh!”_

“ _Pregnant?_ How, who’s the father? It’s Glen isn’t it?”

Margaret nodded slowly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Retta scolded, “Has he agreed to marry you?”

“That’s just it Retta. He doesn’t know.”

“We can tell him now, his apartment isn’t far from the lot. I’ll come with you.”

Margaret cried harder. “I can’t write to him, not now.”

Retta frowned. “Write to him? What do you…” her heart sank as the realisation hit her. “Wait. Do you mean he’s...in Nam?”

“I haven’t told anyone. I didn’t want it to disrupt my work.”

They stood in silence. Retta swooped her into a hug. “I don’t know what to say Maggie. What will you do now?”

Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t go home. But I’ll think of something.”

Margaret’s decision to leave the business didn’t come as a surprise to her peers. It didn’t come as a surprise to her parents. It didn’t even come to a surprise as much as a surprise to herself. She raised that child, and treated it with more care than any piece of celluloid, tending to it with more love than any painted line.

But that was Margaret Ishmael.


	2. Chapter 1

_ Santa Monica, 1984   _

 

“Dad! I’m going out, be back soon okay?” 

Kitty stood in the lobby of her single family home, pulling her denim jacket off the coat rack and collecting her duffel bag. From behind her, she heard her father hobble through the doorway holding his coffee. “Going out? Where ya headed?”

“I have school today remember?”

“Is that today?” he sipped from his mug, “Well, alright. Be careful. Ya got lunch money?”

“Yep!” she said brightly, tapping her bag.

“And your keys?”

Kitty waved her Mickey Mouse house keys in reply and returned them to the inside of her jacket. “I’m going to work extra hard today. Sam said we would have a lighting workshop and I might put my name down for it!”

“Huh, that sounds interesting-” her father began, but he faltered, his prosthetic seeming to catch on something while moving towards her, and almost causing him to fall to the ground. Kitty rushed forward just in time and caught him before his knee grazed. “Dad are you okay?!”

“I’m fine sweetie, I’m fine,” he grunted. Kitty looked down to view the culprit; a loose floorboard. “I’ll get the tools out when I get home and fix that.”

“No, No need, I just need to be more careful. Just a little jittery at the moment.”   

“Did you do your exercises today like the doctor said?”

“I’ll go sit down and do them now, don’t worry. You head off now, you don’t wanna be late.” He turned to go but paused to look at her as she opened the door.

“Do you want me to get anything while I’m out?” She called back, but noticed him staring, “Dad?”

“Sorry,” he said, snapping himself out of it, “it’s just...when you stand there with your coat and your bag...you look so much like your mother.” Kitty gave a warm smile and ran back where he caught her in a tight embrace. “Love you Dad.”

“Love you too Sweetheart,” he replied, kissing her on the forehead and gripping her gently by the shoulders, “Now off you go, don’t worry about me. Just go and do your best!”

Kitty gave her father one last hug, snatched her bag from the floor and stepped out into the glorious sunshine. She mounted her city bike and stuffed her bag in its basket, setting off through her suburb for the boulevard.                  

Ever since she could remember, Kitty Hawkins had wanted to work with toons. While the turning point for them came when the colour TV entered the American family home and with successful Hollywood directors joining forces with humbler studios, hers had come when a acceptance letter to the Huckleberry Institute dropped through the mailbox one Saturday afternoon. She had excitedly raced through to the living room her hands shaking as she read it to her father. Huckleberry was one of the most prestigious animation schools in the region, and had been Kitty’s first choice to master her craft.

When she was a little girl, her mother had taken her to see her very first Disney film: Bedknobs and Broomsticks. It had started out simply enough: three English children sent to live with an old woman during the war - but had quickly escalated into a tale of witchcraft, wonder and fighting off Nazis. From the moment she sat in that darkened theatre, the projector flickering quietly behind her and watched as David Tomlinson and Angela Lansbury danced in an electrifying animated world of musical fish, and challenged a proud king lion to a zoological game of soccer, Kitty had been spellbound.                         

She remembered her mother noticing her fascination with the toons, and for her seventh birthday bought her her very own easel and ink set so she could practice drawing her own. She became an avid member of the Mickey Mouse Club. She sent countless fan letters to Bugs Bunny and even got a reply once: a signed photograph of the famed rabbit star holding his signature carrot and a message which read: “Dear Kitty. I hear you like my pictures and wanna make your own. Wishin’ you the best of luck Doc!” She had been ecstatic, practically begging her mother to frame it for her. She knew now that it had probably hadn’t been from him, just one of his PR people, but she kept the photograph all the same.

As she cycled down the boulevard, stopping for a red light, she gazed briefly at the entrance to the pier, still under restoration from last year’s ferocious winter storm. The workers were already up early, turning the keys in the doors of the amusement centres, and greeting the children who had been waiting with hands itching to play the arcades, their eager faces pressed up against the glass and fogging the windows. The ferris wheel rocked in the soft summer breeze, overshadowed by the looming shape of the rusted rollercoaster. The sickly sweet smell of cotton candy wafted over the street, bringing back memories of the fairground for Kitty, when her mother had taken her on the carousel.  

She even remembered her horse’s name:  _ Atlantic Jack. _ They had spent hours on that carousel, watching the world whirl by. The day Kitty learned the news, she had taken off on her bike, frantically searched for by her father, aunt and uncle. They had found her weeping under the pier, the sea water lapping at her ankles.    

The carousel had since been replaced with a Zoltar machine. Ironic, Kitty had always thought, that she couldn’t just wish for it all back. 

The light flashed green and she turned a corner, heading north towards the Institute. The large, whitewashed Spanish revival building came into view. It was surrounded by a black steel fence, and concealed by acres of sycamores and tropical palms. The parking lot was already beginning to fill with tired looking students and even rougher looking professors.

Kitty recognised her teacher Sam’s blue plymouth draw up in one the staff parking spaces and hoped he would be in a good enough mood to let her stay after class for the workshop. As she chained her bike to the rack, she noticed a group of students from her class out of the corner of her vision, laughing. She scowled, and pretended not to notice them. She knew the laughs probably weren’t directed at her, but one could not be too careful in a competitive field. Collecting her duffel bag, she hurried upstairs to the studio on the second floor.

* * *

“Alright, everybody quiet down and take your seats.” 

The loud clamour of the classroom dulled to a low chatter as Sam entered, straightening his light blue collar. The large spacious studio held thirty desks, each with its own pencil pot and rice paper -Huckleberry prided itself on letting its students create whenever they felt a touch of the muse, leading to several pieces of art hanging from pegs on a line of string at the back of the room, ranging from a simple sketch to a full illustration. Sam unpacked his briefcase and began writing on the chalkboard. “Today we are going to be learning about Xerography. Does anyone know what that might be? Yes, Kevin?”

“Is it like, something to do with X-Ray machines?”

“You’re in the ballpark. Xerography is the process of taking an animator’s drawing and transferring it onto a cel using a Xerox machine, which is as you say, similar to an X-Ray machine, but mostly comparable to a photocopier, first pioneered by the inventor Chester Carlson in 1942. Has anyone here seen 101 Dalmatians?” Half of the room put their hands up. “Good, most of you. Well, at the time Disney was playing around with new technology on the movie Sleeping Beauty - however, it was an overly ambitious project, costing the animators far too much money. Princess Aurora herself recalls being tired on set all the time because of all the directors asked of her-”

Kitty was trying to listen, she really was - but the uncomfortable twist which had formed in her stomach was making any kind of concentration incredibly difficult. Sam went under his desk and brought out a large object covered by a blanket.  

“I actually have a prototype right here, obviously the industry ones are bigger. The old ones used to take up three rooms,” he explained unveiling the printer-like contraption to impressed yet confused students.

“What you do see, is take the sheet of paper,” he demonstrated pulling out a sketch, “with the drawing on it, and then a lens copies it and scans it onto an electrical-charged plate with a chemical toner. The charge directly transfers the image onto the cel, thus fusing them together. Which is good news for you guys, because it means you won’t be tasked with the chore of hand inking everything you draw.”  

There was a mixture of interested murmurs and a few relieved sighs. From the back of the room, a stray hand shot up.

“Yes, Katherine?”

Kitty could feel every pair of eyes in the room turn her way. She tried to hide behind a strand of fluffy hair.

“Soooo...what about, inkers?” 

“Beg your pardon?”

“Inkers, the people who, paint the lines.”  

The quiet which followed felt like an eternity until she finally got her answer. “Well, inking everything by hand isn’t used much anymore, it’s a laborious task for a human to take. That’s why, the Xerox machine saves us the energy.” She raised her hand again, “Yes Katherine?”

“But, what if someone really wanted to ink and animate, without using the--”

“The Xerox?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, one could hypothetically, but it would mean going back to the days of Snow White with thousands of animation cels being inked by hand under a harsh light.” He brought the Xerox further into view, anxious to get on with the lesson, forcing a smile as he saw Kitty’s hand grace the air again. The class were less subtle about their displeasure. “Katherine?”

“But that’s the point. You wouldn’t need to do it by yourself, you would have a crew of others to paint with you.”

"Good luck finding that many people to waste their time,” a young man named Brandon said.                      

Kitty said nothing, but offered a quick glare. She hated him, he was one of the students who thought their arrogance would propel him to success, and so far it unfortunately seemed to be working as Sam sent him on all the exciting excursions while she was condemned to a windowless studio.          

“Katherine, if you have a problem with Xerox, that’s fine but don’t shoot the messenger. You’ll have to take it up with Chester Carlson,” Sam replied, earning a laugh from the class. “Now, we would obviously have to go to the dark room to complete the real process, but as you can see from one created by some of our other students,” Sam continued, holding up the same image again on a seperate piece of paper, “the final work leaves neat black lines around the mouse’s ears and helps us to further bring him into the real world.”                        

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed Kevin, “Will we actually get to create a toon?”  

“Well, that’s for the more advanced students, we don’t want an array of cartoon characters wandering the grounds now do we?” 

“But, why not? That’d be so awesome!” chimed in a girl at the front.

“It might seem that way Stephanie, but most of them bring their Toon Physics with them into our world, so for health and safety reasons we can’t allow it.”

“Yeah, but what if you’re careful enough, can’t you just make it so that they’re always at your side? Like, if I made say, a bear, could I not have that toon bear in my backpack or something?”

“Well, that’s an honourable offer Steph, but a major reason we don’t allow the first years to make their own toons right away is because in previous years, students would make all kinds of toon animals and objects, and then get bored of them once they were done being entertained. We had several toon clothes found in the trash outside. Believe me guys, you don’t want to have a bunch of ownerless toons walking about.”

_ “Ownerless _ toons?”

All eyes once again turned to Kitty as she sat bolt upright in her chair. She tried to ignore the groans she was met with.

“All toons have owners Katherine,” Sam explained calmly.

“Wait, they do?” asked Steph, “I thought that ended in the fifties or something.”

“Technically no. Toons may be free to make their own decisions but ultimately they are trademarked by their creators and the companies who take them on.”

“But, that’s so unfair!” Kitty protested rising to her feet. “Haven’t the animators done their bit drawing them? Can’t they just let go?”

“I have a better idea,” said Brandon angrily turning around, “Why don’t  _ you _ let it go?”

A chorus of voices followed: “Yeah, sit down!” 

“Okay, settle down class, she’s entitled to her opinion.”

“Sam, don’t you think it’s creepy that any talking, thinking,  _ sentient _ being should be owned? Doesn’t that remind you of something? I mean it’s not as if anything’s changed, the Maroon studios haven’t paid their workers a decent wage since they first opened... ”

“Here she goes…” Brandon muttered.  

“Katherine, I’m going to have to ask you to stop now, you’re disrupting the lesson.”

“But-”

Kitty’s cheeks flushed and she slowly lowered herself back down. She didn’t raise her hand for the rest of the period.

* * *

Throughout the day, the students busied themselves about their projects. Most of the first year class were assigned to the the dark room to test the new Xerox machine. A group of the male students lined up to copy their concept art, while the female students waited outside, including Kitty. A tall girl with a sideways ponytail noticed she wasn’t carrying her folder.    

“Aren’t you going to copy your cels?”

“No.”

“You’re going to get in trouble,” her friend said.

“I know.”

The girls shrugged and closed their lockers. As Kitty stuffed her books into hers, she dropped a small scrap of paper. She bent to pick it up, but a polished black boot beat her to it. She looked up and saw a pale-faced gentleman staring down at her. His veins stood out in his wrinkled face, accentuated by the dark circles under his eyes. He dressed more professional than most of the other teachers she had seen, in a velvet overcoat and black tie. His oily hair was slicked back over his head, but doing nothing to hide his receding hairline. The only thing that singled him out from being pristeen were a pair of cloth gloves.

“Lose something?” he asked icily.

Kitty opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by Sam. 

“Aah Katherine, I see you’ve met Professor Blanch. He’s our new Head of Tech.”

One of the cloth hands reached out for Kitty’s, which she took hesitantly. “Mr Swanson here tells me you’re interested in inking.”

“Yes Sir. My mother was an inker for Maroon.”

“Is that so? I used to work for Maroon back in the day -- art director. Didn’t stay for long.” In his other hand he held her scrap paper to the light, checking it as if it were a counterfeit dollar bill. He unrumpled it fully; “Roger Rabbit?”

“Yes. I was practicing drawing him.”

Blanch let out a small “hmm” and handed it back to her. “A brave thing to be, in this day and age. Not many are willing to revert to such conventional methods.” He fixed her with a hard stare and grinned.

Kitty managed to force a smile back. 

“Do you have that disk I asked for?” Blanch asked Sam.

“Oh!” Sam searched his inner jacket pocket and brought out a large floppy disc, “Here we are, I’m not very good with these things I’ll admit, but I managed to clear it for you.”

“Thank you. Which room?”

“Uh, the one straight down and on your left. See you Katherine!”  

Before he turned to leave Blanch stared directly at Kitty. “Well Miss Hawkins, I hope to work with you soon. We are always in need of new people in the tech department. Just know that my door is always open.” He waved and strolled down the corridor, his velvet coattails swishing behind him.

Kitty stood for a moment, perplexed. How could a man so formal want to shut himself up the computer lab...and why did he think she would be interested? Whatever reason, he scared the living daylights out of her. She closed her locker. As soon as it shut, she heard a gaggle of laughter. Brandon was standing in front of her, surrounded by a few of her classmates. Some were hanging their head, refusing to meet her gaze, while others laughed at her oblivity. Kitty just looked back confused.

“What’s it say Kitty?” Brandon smirked, twirling a marker.

She spun around. Scrawled in a firm jet black across her locker was the phrase:

THINKERS NOT INKERS.

The sound of her classmates’ laughter became nothing but ringing in her ears as the message scorched itself into her brain. The uncomfortable knot in her stomach worked itself into her throat until she felt she was going to choke. Her eyes stung and her face burned.

The last thing Brandon saw before he fell to the floor was a flash of messy hair and bony white knuckles. 

* * *

“Katherine, you realize how serious this is?” 

Kitty sat slumped in a chair in her classroom, biting her nails and refusing to look at her stressed professor. Sam dragged a hand down his face and sighed. “Look, I understand that he got to you, but don’t you know there are repercussions for on campus assaults?”

“I...It wasn’t my fault!”

“He didn’t punch  _ himself  _ in the face.”

“I mean, yes I hit him, but didn’t you see what he wrote?”

“And I can assure you he will be punished. But you’ll have to be too. You’re a bright girl, this isn’t like you and this isn’t high school anymore. You can’t pitch a fit if something doesn’t go your way.” 

Pitch a fit?! she thought incredulously. Had he not seen the message? He  _ knew _ how much it hurt her to have her mother’s profession,  _ livelihood _ , slandered like that.    

“Now I’m going to give you a three day suspension notice. When you come back, I want to see that you’ve bucked up your ideas a bit. He tore off a slip of paper and handed it to her. Kitty almost snatched it from him as she picked up her bag and marched out. The prototype Xerox machine sat dejectedly by the door. She gave it a hard kick for good measure as she passed.

The heat of the midday sun was the only consolation as Kitty trudged through the Huckleberry parking lot. It took all of her strength to keep from crying, the knot in her gut becoming tighter and tighter. All at once she felt feverish, furious and suffocated, as if someone had stuffed a raw chilli pepper down her throat, her eyes threatening to water. It was only just beginning to dawn on her what she had done. Her father had paid thousands for her to go to that school! How was it going to look when she stayed home tomorrow morning? She cursed herself for being so stupid - eighteen years old and suspended from one of the best colleges in the region.

She unlocked her bike from the rack and mounted it, her messy black hair flowing softly behind her. There was no hiding her tears now. She wiped her eyes with the back of sleeve all the while muttering obscenities under her breath. As she reached the light, a bus drew up beside her, with a large ad for the Maroon Studios tour across its doors.

“Hey!”

She blinked as the driver addressed her. 

“You okay kid?”

“Yeah, yeah, just rough day is all…” she noticed the ad and scowled, flashing a quick obscene gesture and accidentally having it caught by an old lady. The lights changed to green so she didn’t have time to apologise.   

She stopped when she reached the boulevard. At this point in the day it was crowded with people, all carrying oversized stuffed animal prizes, jumbo hot dogs and slush puppies. The arcades were bustling with kids and teenagers and elated screams could be heard from the rides.                                                       

Kitty checked her watch; her Dad would be suspicious if she arrived home early. While the pier was still too precarious to stroll on, a quick tour of the amusements might lighten her sullen mood. She checked her pockets: definitely enough quarters for a video game or two. 

She sipped on a raspberry slushie as she headed for the nearest amusement centre, deciding on PacMan or Tetris.

“Sure ya don’t wanna play Ms PacMan?” the owner had asked her at the door. 

“What’s she got that PacMan doesn’t? A bow?” she retorted.

Even a place of fun couldn’t lift her spirits. She had been defeated and the stupid game had eaten her money. Sulkily she had left the centre and pushed her bike along a corner towards the battered pier. Perhaps Brandon had been right - the world needed thinkers, not inkers, and now that she had blown her chances of getting in Sam’s good books for the rest of the year, she was neither. She sighed and tossed her slushie into the nearest trash.

_ “Ouch!” _

“Sorry-! Wait-”

Kitty faltered for a moment. Did that trashcan just...talk back? She looked around to make sure no one could hear her.

“Is someone there?”

_ “Sure! I’m in here!” _ a lisping voice echoed back.

Kitty shook her head in confusion. “Do you um...need some help?”

_ “That’d be swell, it sure does reek in here!” _

Cautiously, Kitty reached a hand through the gap in the trashcan. Whatever kind of prank this was, it was certainly an odd choice of hiding place. She delved further trying to ignore the slimy pieces of leftovers and the stench of rotten garbage. Finally, she grabbed ahold of what she was certain was the recipient's arm and pulled - as she strained to get them out, her eyes opened wide in surprised as she realized what she had ahold of was a pair of floppy white ears -  _ toon _ ears.

With one final tug, she managed to free the ears from their squalid prison. The force as they shot from the slot caused her to stumble backwards onto her rump. Dazed, she looked up, baffled at who she had rescued.

It was a toon rabbit.

A very familiar toon rabbit.      


End file.
